Kota didn't take any chances.
The second the TV screen flickered with another round of sizzling steaks and the host's booming voice praising "manly grill marks," he bolted from the couch like the apartment itself was on fire.
His bare feet slapped against the cool laminate floor, legs still protesting with deep, bruised aches from every brutal thrust and mating press earlier that day, but he ignored it. Heart hammering, he ran straight down the short hallway to his room, shoving the door open so hard it bounced off the wall.
The space was dark and familiar, posters of old football stars peeling at the corners, weight bench in the corner gathering dust, the faint smell of his own laundry mixed with the lingering trace of Khalil's aftershave from the last time he had borrowed a shirt. Kota didn't bother turning on the light. He stripped off the rest of his clothes in a frantic rush, jeans and boxers kicked into a heap by the closet, hoodie flung over the desk chair, until he stood naked in the cool air, skin prickling with goosebumps. The bed welcomed him like an old friend, mattress dipping under his weight as he collapsed face-down, pulling the thin blanket over his shoulders and burying his face in the pillow that still smelled faintly of his own sweat from the night before.
Sleep hit him like a hammer. It was only 6pm, the sun still painting orange stripes across the blinds, but his body had been running on pure adrenaline and raw dominance for hours. The second his eyes closed, exhaustion dragged him under, deep and dreamless at first, the kind of heavy sleep that comes after you've spent the day breaking bodies and bending wills until they begged. But the dreams didn't stay quiet for long.
Sweat broke out across his skin in a sudden, clammy wave—beads forming along his spine, pooling in the small of his back, trickling down his ribs and soaking the sheets beneath him. His crotch started to hurt like shit, a deep, throbbing ache that pulsed in time with his heartbeat, hot and insistent, like someone had wrapped his dick and balls in a heating pad turned to maximum. It was too dark to see anything when he cracked one eye open, the room pitch-black now that the sun had finally set, only the faint red glow of the alarm clock on the nightstand casting a bloody haze across the ceiling. He groaned low, shifting under the blanket, but the pain sharpened instead of fading. Frustrated and half-asleep, he kicked the covers off completely, the cool night air hitting his naked body like a slap. He peeled his damp skin away from the soaked sheets, the fabric clinging stubbornly before releasing with a wet sound, then tried to go back to sleep—rolling onto his side, pillow bunched under his head, willing the ache to settle.
It didn't.
He awoke again sometime later, the room still dark, the ache now a full-blown fire between his legs. Groggy and irritated, Kota sat up, the mattress creaking under him as he swung his legs over the edge. His hand fumbled for the lamp switch on the nightstand, clicking it on with a soft click that flooded the room in warm yellow light. He looked down at his dick and the world tilted for a second.
Holy shit.
It looked… bigger. Thicker. Heavier. Even completely soft it hung lower than he remembered, the shaft resting against his thigh with a weight that felt foreign, the head fuller, the veins more pronounced even in its limp state. He compared it to his palm, pressing the flat of his hand alongside it, and realized it wasn't even close to fitting anymore.
This thing used to disappear behind his hand when soft. Now it spilled past his fingers, the tip brushing his wrist. His mouth went dry. He scrambled up, heart pounding so hard he could feel it in his temples, and yanked open the drawer of his desk where he kept the old metal ruler from middle-school math class. The ruler felt cold and familiar in his shaking hand as he pressed it against the base of his cock, lining it up carefully against the soft length.
6.7 inches.
Soft.
This was his average size when he was 80% hard. The number stared back at him like a joke that had stopped being funny. If he was already this big completely limp… how big was he going to be hard? The thought sent a fresh throb through his crotch, the ache sharpening into something hotter, more urgent. His free hand hovered, fingers twitching, but he forced himself to breathe. It was 4am. The apartment was dead quiet, the only sound the low hum of the fridge in the kitchen and the distant rumble of a truck on the highway outside. He knew someone who would be awake right now, someone who lived for this kind of late-night chaos.
Elliot.
Kota grabbed his phone from the nightstand, the screen lighting up his face in cold blue. His thumbs moved fast, typing the only thing he could think of: a simple "u up?" text. He hit send before he could overthink it.
Ten seconds later the reply buzzed in.
Elliot: "Missed me already? 😏"
Kota rolled his eyes so hard it almost hurt, but his cock gave another interested twitch against his thigh. He typed back quickly: "needs some nudes rn."
Elliot's response came instantly: "honored i could be your late night jerk material, king"
The next message was a photo. Elliot bent over in what looked like his own bed, back arched deep, plump ass facing the camera, cheeks spread wide with both hands so the pink, still-puffy hole winked right at the lens. Cum from earlier in the day still glistened around the rim, a slow drip caught mid-fall. Kota's breath hitched. He started stroking without thinking, hand wrapping around the thickened soft length, feeling the new weight and girth in his palm as he pumped slowly, trying to coax it the rest of the way hard.
Elliot followed up with another text: "want a video of me cumming too? i can make it real pretty for you"
Kota's fingers paused on his cock long enough to type back: "dont push it"
He kept stroking, slow and steady, the new size making every slide feel different—heavier, fuller, the skin stretching tighter over the veins that now stood out more prominently even at half-mast. About a minute later he was there, rock-hard and throbbing, the head flushed dark and leaking steadily. He grabbed the ruler again, heart slamming against his ribs as he pressed it along the underside.
8.9 inches.
What the fuck is going on?